dinosaur bones
by Thalius
Summary: John meets his mother in a room with a two-way mirror.


The man on the other side of the glass didn't walk so much as move the matter around the room to situate him in the position he wanted. The microphone picked up nothing—no boot scrapes, no soft breaths. The chair made no noise on the floor when he pulled it out from the table.

"Twenty minutes," the tall woman said behind her. She looked over her shoulder and up, reminding herself of the woman's name by reading the plate stitched onto her left breast.

"Twenty minutes," she repeated. "What happens after the twenty-first?"

"He'll return to his quarters," Osman began softly, "and you to yours."

"What if I don't want to go?"

"Then you shouldn't have agreed to twenty minutes."

"What if _he _doesn't?" She looked back to the glass. The bag she'd brought with her to the station had its contents dumped out onto the table in the middle of the room. The only thing inside her carry-on beside clothes and toiletries had been a plastic dinosaur toy, a juvenile league gravball trophy, and a pre-packaged brownie in foil paper, all three of which were in the room now.

The dinosaur was missing from the table, resting in the man's hands. They dwarfed the toy, his fingers wrapped loosely around its body as he read the letters written in black marker on its underbelly. When he sat down on the pulled-out chair, noise finally registered on the microphone as the chair creaked beneath his weight.

"He will."

"He will follow orders," she corrected.

Osman was silent for a moment. "Maybe you won't need twenty minutes," she said then. "You know him so well already."

"I know enough." She closed her eyes and took a deep breath, swallowing past the thick knot in her throat. Twenty minutes. She could not spend any of that time sobbing. She'd done a lifetime of it already, and yet her grief was still just below the surface.

"Clock starts when you open the door, Mrs. Holdham." Osman was seated now, her legs stretched out far in front of her and a long, thick arm settled loosely over the back of the chair. Besides her uniform, she looked about ready to watch an evening football game. "I would advise efficiency."

"Don't tell me how to speak to my son."

Osman didn't reply to that, and she held onto that anger as she reached for the handle of the door. It was cleaner and more simple than her grief.

* * *

The man was looking up at her before she'd even fully opened the door. He stood immediately—making no noise—and set the toy down—silently—on the table. She took a breath of air, breathing in the same oxygen he was now. All she smelled was starched linens and the faint lingering scent of mass-produced soap that the UNSC used, though she couldn't begin to guess at what smell it was supposed to be imitating.

She closed the door behind her but didn't move further into the room. He took up so much of it, beyond just his body—which was massive enough itself. It was suffocating.

"Hello," she said, and flinched when he took a step. It moved him out of the path of the table, but he stopped when he saw her reaction.

"Hello," he said in a voice so deep she felt it in her teeth. His height made it difficult to maintain eye contact—it wasn't because of any other reason—and her gaze settled naturally at his sternum. His uniform was burdened with medals and ribbons so heavily that they pulled at the fabric of his jacket. How could he walk and not have them clang together?

The matter around him moved again, his right hand now upturned by his side. He watched her watch the movement, and she realised it was a test to see if she'd cringe away again. The knot grew in her throat.

When she didn't, he took another step, and his hand angled sideways—he was offering a handshake. She was maybe three paces away from him, and he didn't step closer. It may as well have been a gulf between them.

"Master Chief Petty Officer John-one-one-seven," he said slowly, his voice startlingly soft. He was telling her his title and name. Only one was familiar. She'd heard the title hundreds of times, of course, but it was less real now than it was when it played on the holo, talking about a man she thought she'd never met.

Twenty minutes, she reminded herself. She crossed the tiled gulf and stopped a pace away, staring at his hand, and then offered her own. Like the toy, it engulfed her completely. His skin was warm but dry, and she was suddenly aware of how sweaty she was.

"Makena Holdham," she replied. She tipped her head up—and then up again to look at his face. There was a tear in the edge of his left brow from a scar that continued to web down toward his temple before fading away. Pockmarks of scar tissue peppered their way across his cheeks and nose like freckles once had, and his hair had dulled to a light brown that greyed near the ears. She'd seen a number of navy personnel who'd gone long stretches without seeing any sunlight, and he looked as though he'd not seen a sun in years.

She swallowed, and then asked him: "Would it be alright if I called you John?"

He nodded, withdrawing his hand and letting it hang back near his side, polite enough not to wipe his palm on his pants. He also took a step back, and she was aware again of the world beyond his broad shoulders. His eyes fell to the table—to the dinosaur—and she gestured toward it.

"Let's sit down."

She made a lot of noise maneuvering her own chair before seating herself. It was difficult to decide whether to lean in or sit back; she wanted to draw in close and absorb the only time she would ever spend with her son, but it was also difficult to get a good look at him that way.

He sat down opposite her and folded his hands in front of him, his back ramrod straight in his seat. His eyes were inexorably drawn back down to the plastic dinosaur, and she felt her mouth pull into a smile.

"You remember it?" she asked, picking it up from the table. She turned it over in her hands, reading the inscription on the bottom. _**J. HOLDHAM. **_The letters were messy and ridged, the outcome of a tiny hand being forced to write on uneven plastic and between the legs of the toy. "This is your handwriting."

She held it out to him and he took it again, only this time the only contact he had with it were the tips of his fingers pressed softly on its sides, as if he were holding finely weaved glass. His hands were even more brutally scarred than his face, and two of his nails were cracked and mottled with dried black blood beneath the nail bed.

And faintly there were others, razor straight and so thin they were impossible to see when cast in shadow. But they were there, and one ran up the length of each finger, originating from a point beneath the cuff of his jacket.

She gripped the edge of the table as the rage set in. Her breathing deepened as her teeth locked hard in her mouth. She'd been wrong. This was just as difficult as her grief.

John noticed her reaction and looked up, setting the toy back down. "Ma'am?"

_Ma'am_. Her tongue soured as bile pooled in the back of her throat.

Four red digits appeared on the wall behind John's shoulder—placed at an angle to be read easily around his bulk. They read _**15:48**._

Makena almost laughed. She'd never been threatened by a clock before, but today was a landmark in unbelievable experiences.

Her grip relaxed on the table and she swallowed. "I'm fine." She forced a smile as she pushed down her anger. "The toy? You remember?"

He nodded. "The smell. It's familiar."

"I brought a few other things," she continued, grabbing the trophy and showing it to him. His eyes flicked down to the inscription, and she swore she saw his mouth twitch.

"John Holdham," he read, taking it from her gingerly. It surprised her how gentle he was, and her surprise was followed by a jolt of pride. "Most Valued Played in Juvie Summer Gravball League, '10."

"You played on the Ehilend Eagles," she whispered, because if she spoke any louder her voice would crack. "Your jersey is back home."

John looked up. "Home," he repeated. He paused before speaking again. "Eridanus-II was glassed in 2530."

"I don't live there anymore."

"I see."

"You remember home?"

"It was part of the briefing," he replied. "But I'd read it before."

"So you don't remember Elysium." She had thirteen minutes and fifty-eight seconds to jog the memory of a man she didn't know and who didn't know her. She saw no echoes of her son in his face, and it was quite possible this wasn't even John. His eyes were the only thing she thought were familiar, but after forty years apart, it was difficult for her to remember, too.

He watched her struggle in her seat and his expression fell. "No. I'm sorry."

She wiped at her face, realising she was crying. "It's fine. It's not your fault."

He set the trophy down and continued to look at her, not saying anything. She wrapped her arms around herself, taking deep breaths and trying to stem back the tide flooding up her throat. She wasn't even entirely sure if it was sobs or vomit this time, but neither one would be helpful right now, and she had a hard deadline to meet.

John—her boy—looked on with a carefully neutral expression. There were heavy lines along his brow, and crows feet pulled at the corner of each eye, but strangely the skin around his mouth was absent of almost any creases. No laugh lines.

Makena leaned forward and cupped a hand to her mouth, but the sob was halfway out by the time she covered it. It was John's turn to flinch away; he sat further back in his chair, his hands withdrawing and falling into his lap. Another sob came rushing out of her mouth, echoing around the cup of her fingers. She had to get herself under control. Already she'd wasted time, asking questions that went nowhere.

And more importantly, John looked like he wanted to be somewhere else. He sat stock-still, his head tilted down as he watched her only from the periphery of his vision. He was calm besides that, and if she had an extra twenty minutes maybe she'd try to get a rise out of him.

"You—" She sucked in a shuddering breath. "You could have said no to this."

He nodded. When he didn't respond further, she closed her eyes. "Why didn't you?"

He was silent for almost sixty seconds. She knew this because she counted each one in her head, the bright red numbers burning into her retinas even with her eyes closed.

When he cleared his throat to speak, she opened them again. "The Admiral told me you insisted."

"So this was a courtesy."

His brows furrowed, though she couldn't tell if he was offended or not. "No."

"Then what was it?"

He hesitated again, and she resisted the urge to hurry him. The time was at ten minutes and change. "I wanted to see."

"See what?"

"Who you were," he replied quietly.

She sat back in her chair, wiping at her face again. "And what's your assessment, then?" she asked, hoping the irreverent tone was at all disarming.

His mouth did not twitch. "You are my mother," he told her, the words formed and spoken carefully, as if he'd never said them before. His gaze went left to a dark curl by her head. "Your hair. I remember it."

She grabbed a stray strand and smiled, holding back another sob. It was darker than normal—she'd dyed it back to her younger black a week before coming here. "Good. That's good."

He said nothing to that. It was unclear whether he was anxious or simply not a big talker. Perhaps both. Going off the six year-old boy he'd been she found the latter option impossible, but he was not a six year-old boy anymore.

She sniffled hard and reached for the foil paper brownie. "I have—one more thing. On Fridays," she said, peeling the corner, "after school, we'd walk to Mister Pallum's store and I'd let you pick out one treat for after dinner."

John watched her pull the foil paper off the brownie. The instant the seal broke, she saw—she thought, she hoped—a spark of recognition flash in his eyes. It couldn't have been the smell, so far away from him, but then she wasn't sure what exactly they did to Spartans.

"Now you didn't always pick this one," she continued, "but it was one of your favourites." When the brownie was out of the packaging, she broke it into two pieces and offered him the larger one.

He looked at it only for a moment before reaching out and taking it from her. His fingers brushed hers, impossibly large next her own, before retreating back to his side of the table. The brownie piece turned in his fingers as he inspected it.

"I hope you're still able to eat brownies," she said, suddenly wondering what the diet of a Spartan would possibly be. "You look like you're in good shape."

He almost smiled. "Aye, ma'am, I can eat brownies. Just not every day."

She smiled back. "This can be your cheat day, then."

His head dipped to one side in agreement, and then he brought it up to his mouth and took a small bite. It crumbled instantly and he leaned forward, swiping his other hand under his chin to protect his uniform from falling crumbs.

A laugh escaped her. "Sorry. They cryo'd my bag on the way here, so it's a bit stale."

He exhaled from his nose in what she thought was an answering laugh, but she couldn't be sure. He gathered the rest of the deteriorating brownie in the hand that had caught the crumbs and wiped at his mouth with the other.

What a great leveller baked goods made, she mused. No one was above looking like a fool while eating one.

Makena popped her own piece into her mouth, biting down and savouring the sweet flavour as she watched him. He was looking for stray bits of brownie, particularly any on his dress blues, and wiped at his pant legs. When he looked up at her, his eyes were bright with memories she couldn't see.

"These were on the second shelf from the bottom," he said, clearing his throat. "In the store."

She grinned, feeling her eyes sting. "Perfect eye-level height for young children."

"And the shop smelled like lemons." He picked up a crumb delicately from his hand and ate it, careful not to let it crumble further. The effect was not unlike watching a very large bird eat from a feeder.

She waited for more details, not wanting to push him. He continued to pick at the crumbs as the taste of the brownie slowly settled in her mouth. Her eyes drifted to the clock. Eight minutes twenty-two seconds.

John ate the rest of his snack but offered no further memories, and with each crumb he ate she felt her smile slip further from her face. Already the high of his momentary familiarity was beginning to slough off of her, and panic settled in after it. She was running out of time, and he was a stranger again.

"So how—" She stopped when he looked up, then continued again. "So how are you?"

"I'm well, ma'am."

"I meant…." She watched him wipe his hands together, brushing off any crumbs too small to eat. "I don't know what I meant." She also knew she wouldn't get any help from him in figuring it out.

Makena sighed and tried again. "Do you… eat enough? Have a nice place to sleep? Are you treated well?"

He straightened in his chair and nodded. "Yes, ma'am. Sometimes too well."

She narrowed her eyes. "How so?"

He hesitated again. She felt like she was interviewing a prisoner. "It's difficult to explain."

"Try me."

"I shouldn't have—"

"Humour me," she insisted. "Please. We're short on time."

He conceded with a nod. "Spartans get special treatment in most postings," he said. "Not everyone is happy of that fact."

A memory came, suddenly and vividly, to the forefront of her mind. Sitting in the principle's office with John seated beside her, arms crossed and nose bloody, as the teacher explained calmly that his skills in class far exceeded the expectations of most six year-olds, and that he was bullied by other children because of it. Sometimes they even threw punches.

And John always punched back.

"How do you get them back?" she asked.

Disbelief filled his eyes at her question before he could compose himself. "Get them back?" he repeated.

"People treat you differently," she said, not really a question, but he nodded warily at her words. "So how do you punch back?"

"I don't, ma'am." For the first time, his eyes flicked to the glass window behind them. It was impossible to see through on this side, but she was certain he knew of their audience. "It's not an issue worth fighting over."

"You're bothered enough by it to bring it up to a stranger," she countered, and his eyes narrowed slightly.

"I was simply making conversation."

"I see." It was her turn to bring down an uncomfortable blanket of silence on them, and she wondered how long she could push it. She could spend five months in here with him and not get enough out of it to satisfy her, and with their—she checked—four minutes and two seconds, she had to be fine with having only one question answered.

And she would get it answered before she walked out of this room.

John cleared his throat, his eyes sweeping across the table without looking at her. He wanted to leave again, and this time she had no brownie to placate him with.

"Are there others? Other Spartans?"

He looked up, his eyes twitching over her shoulder towards the glass for a fraction of a second. "The Spartan-IV branch has hundreds of—"

"That's not what I asked you."

"There are a few," he said. Although his body posture was tense, he didn't sound upset. She thought he sounded curious. "Why?"

"They're treated differently, too?"

"Yes."

"Do they think it's an issue worth fighting for?"

His mouth twitched and she saw a deep kind of intimacy pool into his eyes, but it wasn't for her. "Some do," he answered.

"And?"

"And I afford them any reprimands I feel appropriate."

"Like what—"

The clock above them buzzed as it reached the three minute mark. They both looked up, John's head twisting over his shoulder. She saw more scars along his throat, and at the back of his head the tip of an interface port she'd seen a number of other UNSC personnel equipped with was visible.

"Do you have any questions you want to ask me?" she asked when he turned back. "Now's the time."

His brow furrowed as he thought for a moment. Then, "where are you living now?"

The question surprised her, but she recovered quickly. She had no other choice. "Mars," she said. "I have an apartment there. I'm helping with civilian settlement planning in the Inner Colonies."

He nodded. "You live alone?"

She replied to the question he was actually asking. "Your father died several years ago."

John absorbed the information with an inscrutable expression. "How?" he asked then.

"Enlisted. Served a few years before dying on Earth." She wasn't sure why it was so difficult to talk about now; she'd set that grief aside a long time ago. She didn't tell him that they'd divorced shortly after John had died—or thought he had, anyway. She also didn't tell him they'd have probably divorced had he stayed on Eridanus anyway.

The last bit of information made him flinch. "I—" He cut himself off and then swallowed. "I see."

The clock buzzed again—ninety seconds.

She reached out and laid her hand on the table, open palm. "Take it," she said. "Please."

He faltered for only a second before doing what she asked. His hand covered hers completely, and she did her best to wrap her fingers around his. She squeezed hard.

"I won't see you again," she whispered. "I doubt they'll ever let me."

"Mrs. Holdham—"

"Do not call me—" She blew out a breath. Focus. "We don't know each other. But you are still my son, and I still love you." Her mouth quivered into a thin line. "You're my boy. And I know what you've—I've heard about the things you've done. I don't know how much of it is true, and I'm sure it's only a fraction of your career, but—I'm proud of you."

John said nothing. He was staring at their hands, intertwined and shaking from the effort of her squeezing. If he found the pressure discomforting, he made no indication. The silence ate away at the precious few seconds they had left.

"Anything else," she whispered desperately. "Anything else to say?"

He looked at her then, meeting her eyes. His face blurred with her tears before she blinked them away.

"No," he said. "That's all."

She bowed her head and nodded, clenching her teeth, unsure whether to be devastated or relieved. "Okay," she whispered.

The door opened behind her, and John stood up. His hand slipped from hers as he snapped off a salute to the person at the door. Makena turned to see the same woman who'd let her in—Osman.

"Time's up," she said, almost sounding regretful. "We'll escort you back now, Mrs. Holdham."

"Yeah, fine." She stood up, turning away and looking at John. Looking at her son. "Can we walk back togeth—"

"Afraid not. Let's go."

Makena stepped away from her chair and John did the same. On the other side of the door she could see that it wasn't just Osman inside now—a man in white and gold navy dress, completely bald beneath his cap, was standing behind her. His eyes were locked on John.

She walked the short few paces it took to get to the door and John fell into step beside her. She wanted to grab him, to say something—anything. She couldn't bear their last moments to be spent in silence.

Then John cleared his throat. "Like what," he said.

She looked up at him. "What?"

"You asked me, 'like what'."

He paused just before the door, right beside Osman, but his back was to the Admiral as he stared down at her, and the universe condensed around him again, ending at the breadth of his shoulders.

And he was finally smiling. "I usually let it slide."


End file.
